Choices
by KekahJ
Summary: "I danced with two people at my wedding. The one I married, and the one I wish I married." A short one-shot I wrote inspired by this quote.


Choices

"_I danced with two people at my wedding. _

_The one I married, and the one I wish I married."_

The rain beats incessantly against the window. It's too dark to see the drops, but we hear it. In the silence of the room, it's almost unbearably loud. After so many minutes, it's more than I can take.

"Say something," I whisper into the darkness.

I can feel him breathing, his chest rising and falling, raising and lowering my head from where it rests right above his steadily beating heart. But now the pattern is interrupted as he pauses for a moment. He waits for the span of only a few heartbeats, but to me it feels much longer. Then he exhales, and the rhythm resumes.

I feel tears pricking the corners of my eyes for what feels like the millionth time that day. When it becomes clear that he's not going to answer, I sit up reluctantly, pushing my hair back off my forehead and out of the way. It's tangled and matted, but I don't care.

"Please…" I try again.

"What do you want me to say?" he finally erupts angrily, and his hands are sharp knives that slice the heavy air. His words are just as sharp, and they sting as they hit me. But I'm glad he's at least responding. Anything is better than the icy silence.

"I know. I don't know what to say either." I bring my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around my bare legs as if I can physically keep myself from falling apart if I try hard enough. The tears are falling freely now, and I can't stop them even if I try. But I don't try. Instead, I sit, hugging myself and rocking slightly.

From somewhere beside me he mumbles unintelligibly, and a moment later I feel his arms around me, hands rubbing, trying to soothe, trying to make the tears stop. His chin rests against my shoulder, and he's whispering in my ear. His words have the opposite effect though, and soon I'm crying harder than ever. I manage to glance at his face, and his expression is tortured. Knowing I'm the cause of that look makes me cry harder than ever, and he pulls me into his lap.

"Baby…" His voice is rough, and there's something about the way the word is an embrace. I unlock my hands from around my knees, and soon they're in his hair, tugging, pulling.

The room is nearly pitch black, but we don't need light as familiar fingers slide across well-travelled skin. It's quick, and desperate, and full of everything neither of us can say, and he's absolutely silent except for the moment when he cries out my name.

Afterward, I lie on his chest again, listening to his heartbeat as it begins to slow. Somehow I can't bring myself to find the guilt I know I should feel. To be fair, I don't search too long or hard. I know from experience that it's there somewhere, but recently it seems like it's hiding deeper than ever, and it's becoming harder and harder to find it. Being in his arms feels right, and I don't care about anything else in that moment.

Somewhere in the distance a phone buzzes insistently. It's probably mine, and it's probably important, and I'm sure it's about tomorrow, but I ignore it as I drift to sleep, his arms wrapped tightly around me.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next day passes in a haze. Everyone around me is busy. Everyone around me has a million things to do, and all I can do is smile woodenly. At times, it feels like I'm no longer a person, as if I've turned into some sort of robot who mindlessly follows directions. It hurts too much to think, to let myself feel.

There are flowers. Sweet smelling flowers—so very many flowers—and twinkling lights, and it's all too much. My stomach rolls as the words that will change everything are spoken. But because I'm a mindless robot, I speak them also, and they echo off the walls and through my empty head. If I could still feel, those words would kill me.

He squeezes my hand, but it's the wrong hand, and he's the wrong boy. He's a nice boy, but he's not the one I want. His eyes are the wrong color, and he's too tall, and when we dance later that night, as the stars in the sky rival the twinkling lights strung overhead, being in his arms feels so wrong.

I sit down for what feels like the first time all day, but sitting is no good, because it's hard to be numb when you have time to think. Flashes of the night before try to sneak into my head, and I do my best to stop them, pouring myself a glass of wine with shaky, unsteady hands.

"Can I dance with the bride?"

I look up, and it's him, the right boy. I wonder briefly if I'm dreaming, but then I decide I don't care. He's there, his eyes boring into mine as he holds his hand out. His mouth is turned up in one corner, just the way it was last night, and I want to laugh and cry and scream all at the same time.

Before I know it, I'm in his arms. His long fingers are pressing against my spine, and his breath is warming my neck. I shiver and hold onto him a little tighter, as if I can keep him here, keep this moment from ever ending. There's a tiny part of me, in the back of my head, that's wondering if anyone around us is noticing that I'm dancing with the wrong boy. Except to me, he's the right boy. The only boy who'll ever matter.

The song ends, but he makes no moves to release me, and I make no move to leave him. My whole body is tingling.

"Why did you come here?" I finally ask, and my voice seems small and shaky.

For what seems like an eternity, he doesn't answer. Then finally he sighs, and his grip around my waist tightens. "I had to see you." He stops, and I don't think he's going to say any more, but then his next words come out, and with them my heart, cascading to the floor. "I had to say goodbye."

I close my eyes and rest my forehead on his shoulder. Neither one of us speak after that, as if by not speaking we can freeze this moment. But it's too good to last. The music stops again, and this time I know I'm going to lose him. I cling to him tighter, silently begging him to stay.

His voice is somehow soft and rough all at once, and his words make me feel like he can read my mind. "You made your choice."

It's true, and it's nothing more than I've told myself a hundred times, but it still hurts.

With one last squeeze, one last ghost of a kiss across my forehead, he's gone. The music starts again, and I realize I'm standing awkwardly in the middle of the floor, alone. I want to look around, to find him, to call out for him to return, but I know it's no use. He's not mine, and now I'm no longer his.

Maybe in a different world, I could have been. If things had been different, if my life was really mine, I could have been his, but it's too late now. I sigh and turn back to my table. It's time to dance with my new husband again.


End file.
